


there was not an interview

by sheffiesharpe



Series: At Least There's The Football [10]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anthea is totally a ninja, Canon-Typical Violence, Greg Lestrade has two nieces and is good at football, Greg Lestrade is secretly punk rock, I wasn't kidding about the ninja thing, M/M, Oral Sex, Santiago - Freeform, guacamole fixes everything, thank God somebody can cook, that's why you're the clever one, we're on the kitchen floor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-04
Updated: 2011-12-04
Packaged: 2017-10-26 21:41:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/288212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheffiesharpe/pseuds/sheffiesharpe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's a good friend, Sherlock can't tell a story, the nieces are diabolical, and Lestrade continues to learn things he didn't know.</p>
            </blockquote>





	there was not an interview

Lestrade wakes in the middle of the night, heart racing. He’s been dreaming, he knows, can’t remember what about, and he also knows he’s grateful for that much. Beside him, Mycroft’s tense, awake, his hand soft on Lestrade’s chest. Maybe it was Mycroft’s touch that woke him. He’s not sure.

“All right?” Mycroft asks just as Lestrade apologizes.

“I wasn’t asleep,” Mycroft says, and he draws himself in, his head on Lestrade’s shoulder, his arm curling around his ribs, his right leg slotting between Lestrade’s. His silk pyjamas are all warm sleekness where Mycroft shifts against him, and Lestrade kisses his forehead. “Gregory.” Mycroft pets his side.

“Yeah?” Despite the evening’s previous conversation, Lestrade is glad he’s still here, gladder still that Mycroft’s curled against him. He’d considered going back to his own flat—the deception still makes him angry—but he’s also not keen on letting Mycroft out of his sight just now. He’s going to have to get over that by morning, but it’s not proper morning yet.

“Are you certain you’re all right?” Mycroft’s fingertips slide down his arm.

“Just a bad dream. Can’t even remember it now.” Even the dark blank spot blurs at the edges under the slide of Mycroft’s hand. He tips Mycroft’s chin up, kisses him, and he’s surprised when Mycroft’s tongue touches his lips. He opens his mouth, and Mycroft kisses him slowly and deeply, hitches closer.

When the kiss breaks, Mycroft’s fingers trace his jaw. Mycroft’s hard against his hip, but he stills. For a moment. Then he edges in more, resettles.

“Are _you_ all right?” The room is dark enough that he can’t see Mycroft’s face, and Mycroft can’t see the faint grin on his lips, though he can likely hear it.

“Yes, I’m fine,” Mycroft says, and he sounds strangely annoyed. His fingertips move an inch, and he curls his hand into a fist on Lestrade’s ribs.

Lestrade gets his arm around him, draws his hand over Mycroft’s back, and Mycroft seems to lean into the touch. “I don’t think you’re fine.” When he gets his hand under Mycroft’s shirt, when his palm lands on the soft skin of his back, Mycroft exhales, and Lestrade strokes the length of his spine. “Something you wanted?” Mycroft’s right leg hitches a little between his, too.

“No.” Mycroft’s voice is muffled against his neck now. “I shouldn’t keep you up. I’m sorry.” Mycroft rolls over, puts his back to Lestrade. There’s nothing to do but follow, and Lestrade snugs in close, slides one leg over Mycroft’s.

“Are you sure you shouldn’t?” He scrapes his teeth gently over the nape of Mycroft’s neck, and Mycroft breathes hard.

“After what I put you through this evening?” His head shakes even as he ducks for more of that contact. “I shouldn’t even be thinking about it.”

Lestrade hooks a finger in Mycroft’s pyjama collar, tugs the fabric a bit more out of the way. He kisses, nips a little, and Mycroft startles.

“You can scare the fuck out of me, professionally speaking, as your life requires. I am never going to like it,” Lestrade says. “But I’ll deal with it.” He doesn’t feel as lighthearted about it as he might sound, but he told Will to piss off when Will objected to the dangers of his job, so he’s not about to expect any different from Mycroft. Even if he maintains the two situations are not at all the same. He covers the fresh spike of anxiety with a soft bite. “But don’t deny me sex just because you think you oughtn’t be randy at three in the morning.” He shifts, nibbles at the top of Mycroft’s ear.

Mycroft reaches, puts his hand on Lestrade’s hip, leans into him. “But I upset you. And you had a nightmare.”

Lestrade isn’t going to say the two things aren’t related because they probably are. “So give me something nice to dream about.” He licks, blows softly against Mycroft’s ear, and Mycroft shivers, turns over again so they’re face-to-face, there in the dark.

Mycroft kisses him as he slips out of his own pyjamas, lets the contact break only as he’s tugging away Lestrade’s bottoms. For a long time, they kiss like that, bare and stretched against each other, until Mycroft reaches between them.

***

Lestrade wakes up when Mycroft does, leaves in the morning. It's too early, but he needs to go home before going to the Yard. And the sooner he leaves, the better chance he has for avoiding Anthea. She doesn't like early morning, isn't like Mycroft in that respect. Not that she's groggy or grumpy or anything as normal as that, but there's that feeling in his gut: if she could still be sleeping, she would be. Much like John, who says he hasn’t had a proper lie-in since moving in with Sherlock. Lestrade can’t imagine Anthea gets many of those with Mycroft’s schedule, either. Anthea. It is all somehow harder to deal with in the daylight.

On the bus, he rests his head against the window, tries to turn his attention toward the upcoming day. It'll be busy enough, he knows. It always is. Maybe they'll turn up something else on the Prague case.

Maybe Sherlock can be bothered to participate now.

***

At the day’s end, when they’ve identified the hands as best they can (removed while the victim was still alive, belonging to a man in his mid-forties, smoker, indent from a ring on the left hand, but on the middle finger, not the traditional), he gets a text from Sherlock that says he’ll be around the next day to have a look at things. Provided Anderson hasn’t misplaced the whole box.

Lestrade hasn’t even the energy to respond to the dig at his team. He just stares at his powered-down computer screen and tries to decide what next, rubbing absently at the nicotine patch on his arm. After so long without one, it feels weird having it there, but it tempered the feeling of wanting to just kick his desk chair until either it or his foot broke. And he wasn’t really even _angry_. Just—unsettled. He doesn’t really want to go home; the quiet of his own flat will only make him think more, and he doesn’t much feel like sitting at a pub if there’s not a match on. And he’s not going to Mycroft’s flat. All day, it’s come together: he needs space. And he needs to deal with letting Mycroft alone—not alone, but with her—because that’s not going to change. He exhales and leans back in his chair, scrubs a hand through his hair. That’s not going to change.

He stares up at the ceiling for a while, and down the hall, someone else’s office goes dark, and then another. He’s seriously considering re-opening his case notes, just staying at his desk because he knows _how_ to do that, when his phone vibrates. It’s John’s number. He answers, and he is not prepared for what follows.

John says, “If you’re not busy, come by. I’m making dinner. Not to your standards, but I’ve never poisoned anyone.” And then there’s the sound of a scuffle— _yes, shut up, Sherlock_ —and the connection cuts out.

Lestrade’s not certain that spending the night in Sherlock’s company is really going to help, either, but the situation is bizarre enough that his curiosity is piqued. It should be interesting, if nothing else.

***

221b is warm, the air full of a rich, spicy smell— _chiles_ and garlic and lime. It’s strong enough to cover the faint formaldehyde scent that usually hangs about the flat. Sherlock is hunched over the desk, ignoring him as he comes in, but when John shouts him into the kitchen, Sherlock is suddenly there at his elbow.

And John gives Sherlock a look. Sherlock takes half a step backward—his bare feet clear of the threshold of the kitchen—and John returns to the methodical halving of avocados. He tells Lestrade to help himself to a drink, cocks an elbow toward the refrigerator.

Opening it’s always an adventure. This time, though, there aren’t any body parts lying on the shelves, and the beer’s lined on the door. He’s not about to look too closely at the various jars or the labels on them, but there’s his favoured lager beside John’s black bottles of Guinness. He takes out one of each, asks Sherlock if there’s anything he wants. Since Sherlock is apparently not permitted in the kitchen just now.

Sherlock ignores the question. “I’m doing the limes for that,” Sherlock says, peering at the bowl where John’s scooping out the soft green flesh. John more or less ignores him and instead asks Lestrade how Arsenal’s faring. Sherlock folds his arms over his chest and stares at the ceiling while they talk football.

Lestrade leans against the refrigerator and enjoys the scene. Eventually, John does point at the table where there’s a graduated cylinder and a citrus reamer, and Sherlock springs across the threshold like a gate’s disappeared.

“Stay clear,” John says, and he gets a glass for the stout Lestrade hands him. They watch as Sherlock weighs both limes in his palms, separately, and he writes something on a scrap of paper beside the cylinder. And then Sherlock cuts one lime in half—not by putting the lime on the waiting cutting board but by holding it between thumb and forefinger and sliding the knife upwards through its middle. Lestrade is reminded of nothing so much as a throat-slitting. John’s shaking his head fondly, a bit of the cream-colored foam on his upper lip.

And in the resultant minute, Lestrade’s never seen a citrus fruit so violated. But if nothing else, Sherlock works cleanly and quickly—no seeds in the juice, and somehow very little pulp. His hands remain, for the most part, dry. He passes John the graduated cylinder, sucks a bit of juice from the side of his thumb, and leaves the kitchen. He also leaves the detritus of his juicing experiment where it was, in the middle of the table (they’re certainly not going to be eating at the table, but there’s also only clutter, no chemicals, sitting atop it, as far as he can tell).

John continues making his guacamole, checks on what is apparently a pan of enchiladas in the oven. “Mexican,” he says. “Very difficult to make properly authentic. Even more difficult to bollocks it up completely.” And he tells the story of spending a few months of one of his tours of Afghanistan working with a knot of American soldiers, a guard unit out of New Mexico.

“One bloke, his mum sent jars of home-preserved green chiles and braids of dried peppers—he’d bring ‘em into the mess and laugh at all of us, trying to keep up.” John shakes his head. “Some of that—that’s not even food.” And Lestrade knows John likes his curry hot, hasn’t found anything that isn’t improved by sambal oelek.

“You wouldn’t fall for that,” Sherlock calls from his desk.

John dices a few Serrano chiles finely, tosses them in the mix, gives it a stir, a taste, calls it done. “I haven’t always been this old and wise,” John says.

Sherlock says nothing else, but John completes his likely eyeroll for him. Lestrade just says thanks for the invite. The guacamole is cool and creamy and the peppers hit slowly, the heat creeping across his tongue. He gulps at his beer, and John’s resultant grin is sort of evil.

And then he just says, “Well, this is pretty well all I’ve got in the kitchen. Had the afternoon free, so.” He takes the pan of enchiladas from the oven. “Make yourself a plate. Given up the table for a lost cause.”

Lestrade notices that John puts together a plate for Sherlock, everything fairly mounded in guacamole and salsa, but no sour cream. Sherlock accepts it—at his desk—without complaint. Somehow there’s a fresh London Pride sitting on the coffee table in front of the grey chair.

“John,” he says. “Are you planning to take advantage of me?”

“Mm,” John says around a mouthful of corn tortilla. He swallows. “Yes. Just desperately. But my shag card’s full up right now so I’ll have to wait for some other night to do something naughty enough to make Mycroft deport me to Siberia.” He belches for effect.

Lestrade laughs, barely avoids lager in his sinuses.

“He doesn’t have people deported,” Sherlock says, “to Siberia. When was the last time Putin was agreeable about anything?” It’s so matter-of-fact, so bored already—

Lestrade just turns his attention to the food for a while. The food is good. And very spicy. And John gets up for seconds and comes back with another round.

“He told me,” John says, quietly, though certainly Sherlock can hear him anyway, “after you left the other night.” He clears his throat. “Bit of a bombshell, that.” Then he makes that rueful half-smile, shakes his head. “Not like that. Well. She is, but.” John sighs. “You coping?”

Lestrade considers his answer. He considers it over another chip mounded with avocado. What can he do but shrug?

“Guess I have to, yeah?”

“Of course you don’t,” John says.

Lestrade knows what he means. And it’s not that he is okay with it—he’s not okay with it at all. He’s not okay with the idea of Mycroft in any sort of danger. He’s not okay with anyone wanting to ransom him, still less okay with anyone being in the position of being able to ransom him, and Mycroft pretty well alluded to torture and not a single goddamn bit of any of that is even remotely okay. But he’s not about to walk away, full stop, because of any of it.

It’s just that it doesn’t matter how much he _knows_ about Mycroft. He wants to be the one watching out for him, even if he knows it’s the least possible thing on the planet. And even if he knows better than to go by appearances—his second broken nose came courtesy of a seventeen-year-old girl who didn’t weigh more than a wrung-out dishtowel and had ingested more coke than he wanted to think about—even if he knows that Anthea’s not looking like a threat makes her much more of one—just. Jesus. He exhales.

“I wish I had a bloody handbook to give you,” John says.

Without turning his head, Lestrade can feel Sherlock’s head swivel, his eyebrows draw together a little. Can see John see him. That’s funny.

“I’m sticking it out,” Lestrade says. Even if being in the same place with Mycroft and Anthea is going to be… He has no frame of reference for what it will be. It was fairly awkward before, feeling at once chaperoned and vaguely encouraged. But he’d liked her well enough, and the girls adored her. Now—now he gets up to get a handful of chips, just comes back with the bag and the bowl of guacamole. Sherlock passes by on the way back to the kitchen, steals the bowl right back. And Sherlock Holmes returns with more food on his plate.

Lestrade is fairly certain he’s never seen Sherlock take seconds of anything that resembled an actual meal, and this time, Sherlock plunks himself down on the sofa with his plate, puts his back against the arm of it, his bare feet behind John’s back. But Sherlock said he’d be in tomorrow morning to look at the evidence thus far for the Prague case—maybe John’s gotten him to accept eating (or stockpiling, at the rate Sherlock’s destroying chicken and green chiles) _before_ he’s working. Good on John.

He and John work through another round, and though he’s trying to think about the fact that this is actually fairly pleasant—particularly while Sherlock is quiet—now that John’s asked about it, he can’t stop thinking.

“Just,” he says, and his tongue sticks. “How do you _hire_ for something like that? Is there an interview? ‘Sorry, but all my references are already dead.’ ‘Ah, that speaks highly of your qualifications’.” The most upsetting part of it is that, without much trouble, he could imagine Mycroft reading through applications, dossiers. He shoves his face in his hands.

“There was not an interview.” Sherlock seems vaguely amused. “She got him out of a situation in Santiago,” Sherlock says. “Ten years ago.” The word “situation” seems to take on a capital letter in Sherlock’s mouth.

Ten years ago, Lestrade thinks, Anthea was still in school. He snorts. “Ten years ago,” Lestrade says, “she was a child.” He’s not certain exactly how old she is—is certain he will never actually know that—but he’s been around people, has paid attention to a thing or two. And if she’s thirty yet, he’s a badger.

The look Sherlock gives him doesn’t deny that. Lestrade takes another pull from his beer.

“She was fifteen. That’s when she entered his employ.” Sherlock picks up and contemplates John’s Guinness, sniffs it, doesn’t drink, though he pokes at the foam a little, licks his fingertip. John steals his beer back with a huff.

Lestrade knows better: Sherlock doesn’t really joke. He doesn’t see the point in pulling anyone’s leg. Still, the only response he can come up with is, “Quit talking shite.”

Sherlock fixes him with that withering stare and waits until Lestrade composes himself before continuing.

“He was somewhere he wasn’t supposed to be.” Sherlock takes a sip of John’s pint. “As always.”

John steals back his glass. “You never told me that.”

“It’s not relevant to you.” Sherlock sighs. “It shouldn’t be relevant to him, but if there’s one thing Lestrade’s always been, it’s persistent in his idiocy.”

“I’m right here.” The room’s a little soft around the edges, his stomach full, his beer smooth.

“Also irrelevant.” Not to the context of the conversation—the conversation, Lestrade knows, is solely for his own benefit—but to the idea that Sherlock wouldn’t insult him to his face. Sherlock’s almost smiling. “Whatever she is,” Sherlock says, “she’s as good as anyone could want her to be at it. I should think you’d be pleased.”

“Sherlock,” John says.

Lestrade agrees: more than a bit not good. “Why’d you even tell me in the first place?” Not that he told him exactly, but the principle stands.

“Because you should know the worst about each other,” Sherlock says, “if you’re going on like this.” He takes John’s stout again, has a proper mouthful of it, and he grimaces at it, but he takes another. “Idiot.”

Lestrade spends the night on the sofa at 221b. He wakes up to a single voicemail from Mycroft, wishing him a good night, saying he’s sorry he’s missed him, that he’s going to be gone, that he hopes to see him on Wednesday. At the end of it, there’s a small, stuck pause before he says, “Goodnight, Gregory.”

***

Two days later, Lestrade turns up his sleeves; the evening’s still surprisingly warm, and he’s strangely grateful for the thought that sent him here. “Here” is a breakers yard well south of London; he’d already been in Dulwich Village, taking a statement, and was on his way back to the city when something gurgled on the radio, a name, an address, that jolts his memory, a few old mentions of the place. They’d never gotten enough of a story for the Yard to get properly involved, nothing anyone could pin down beyond a few break-ins, the security cameras disabled. But here he is, in an unmarked car, and now’s as good a time as any to check in with the proprietor, see what the trouble was. And the scenery is different, the weather good. There’s something strangely comforting about the metallic scent in the air, the faint tang of oil, too—it’s like when he had his first bike, the one he spent more time working on than riding.

The yard is loud with the screech of metal on metal, a huge compacter working somewhere. It’s hard to see where, so piled up is the junk. There’s no one at the open gate, no one at the office, and the hair on the back of his neck rises. He contemplates the gate, and a flurry of movement tickles the corner of his eye. Disappearing behind a mound of refrigerators and scrap, a swift black silhouette he hasn’t seen before—not like this—but that he knows. Immediately, he knows. He takes out his mobile to get Sally on the alert, but there’s no signal at all, even though the space is open, even though he can _see_ a tower from here. How that’s possible, he doesn’t know, isn’t certain he wants to know.

He follows the same path, ducking around the bank of junk, and there is Anthea, wearing her bike leathers, though he hasn’t seen the BMW anywhere. In the cleared center of the yard, there are more people, and when the crusher pauses—the roof now three inches shy of the bottom of the windows—there’s the sound of shouting. He draws closer, and there’s a hand, there are fingers curled over the edge of the door under the crusher. The car is white, and blood trickles down where the man’s fingers—thick and heavy and ruddy—are clenched on the fringe of broken glass. The hand is not familiar. Lestrade feels guilty about the wash of relief; someone could still die. Someone could still die because there are half a dozen other men standing there, backs toward them, one with a pistol tucked into the back of his jeans, another two with lengths of pipe. One of them walks up to the edge of the crusher, bashes the pipe into the buckled door. There is more shouting—something Slavic that Lestrade doesn’t recognize specifically.

Anthea glances over one shoulder, and he mouths, “Mycroft?”

She shakes her head crisply. He is not here. “And you’re early. You drive too fast,” she whispers.

And then Anthea is not there. She is a black blur, a leap, and one of her heavy boots catches the man with the gun between the shoulderblades. He falls forward, and she follows the motion, rides his body to the ground, so she stands on his back before she pivots away, ducking the length of pipe and slamming the heel of her palm into the man’s extended elbow. Something cracks—maybe it’s the joint, maybe it’s something else in the yard—but the man screams, staggers, and her knee collides with his chin. He drops, is still.

Lestrade is frozen for a minute as the remaining four round on her; Anthea’s face is fierce and open and _glad_ somehow, though she’s not smiling, not really. When one of the men barks something at her, though, her mouth curls up at one edge, and she crooks two fingers at him in particular.

He lunges, and Lestrade can’t keep himself back anymore. While their attention is on Anthea—the high swing of one leg, the heavy heel of her boot catching one of them in the collarbone—he catches a fistful of jacket, spins one bloke around, and his knuckles collide with the man’s meaty jaw. But he doesn’t drop, just reels, redoubles, and Lestrade takes a fist to the forearm—the ring the man’s wearing is going to leave a bruise—and a sloppy knock in the chin before he lands another punch cleanly. The man spits blood, wipes his face, lunges again. Lestrade side-steps, kicks for the outside of the knee, watches him crumple, watches him curl around the ruined joint, moaning. He feels like it’s fighting dirty, but six on two is a dirty fight to begin with.

There’s only one left now, though—while his back was turned, she’d taken down two more—and there’s only the other man with the pipe. She glances at him, looks at the man. “ _Policija_ ,” she says. Lestrade recognizes that word. Implication: he can call it a day now, without needing to put anything in a cast or the reconstructive surgery another bloke’s going to want on his nose, and maybe cut a deal for information. Lestrade has no idea what’s going on here, but he’d be willing to bet his rank that it’s going to be interesting.

The man puts down the length of pipe, holds his hands out, together. Anthea takes a step forward, a zip-tie in her hands that he hadn’t seen her take from anywhere. She takes another step, and then she vaults backward and to the left, a handspring that brings her next to the man with the gun. The man who is holding it now, the pistol-butt resting shakily on the ground, the man sighting with his cheek in the dirt, but sighting the shot still. Lestrade hears the wrist break when she brings her foot down on it and the pistol falls to the side. The man with the pipe puts himself face-down on the ground, folds his hands on the back of his head.

They bind ankles and wrists—even the broken ones—and Lestrade almost feels bad for them.

“The one in the car?” Lestrade can’t see the fingers clinging at the window anymore, but there is banging against the door. The metal’s not going to give, as twisted as the top of the frame already is.

“He’ll keep” is all Anthea says. She’s not really even breathing heavily, and though Lestrade can feel a lump swelling on his forearm and a throbbing in his knuckles and jaw, she looks the same as she did when he arrived.

He takes out his mobile, and it has service again. He glances at her, but she’s already texting something. Before he can even dial the Yard, Anthea takes his phone, closes it.

“It’s taken care of,” she says. “You should go.”

He looks behind her, to the bodies on the ground—two of them are unconscious and the rest of them likely wish they were—and he looks directly at her. “I was never here, was I?”

“Correct.” Her head tilts and she studies him, waiting for something.

“What did you mean, early?” He wasn’t scheduled to be here at all.

“Mycroft’s going to be cross that you were involved.” Her fingertips nudge his elbow up, and she turns his wrist. Nothing hurts awfully when he moves it; it’s only a bruise. One of his knuckles is raw, though, cut, maybe on teeth or the zippered collar of the fellow’s jacket. “And you certainly didn’t need to become involved.” Her voice is cool, but her eyes seem kind.

“I’m fine.” He jams his hands in his pockets. “How does Mycroft know—how did _you_ know I was going to be here?” He didn’t even know he was going to be here.

Anthea just looks at him. The quiet is broken by a pained noise from one of the men. Anthea’s nostrils flare, and Lestrade is fairly certain she’d have kicked all of them in the head, one more time, for good measure. “You really must go.”

“Must I?”

“Detective Inspector.” She reaches, turns him with a nudge to the shoulder. “Cannongate Arms. Half nine.” She walks away.

By the time he gets to the car, he knows it was a set-up. Not that the whole incident was false, not those weren’t actual thugs, not that that man wasn’t planning to shoot her, likely both of them, but that he was there, when he was there. Why the radio cut in and out on the breaker’s yard’s address, the voice not quite on. That was his demonstration: she can handle herself.

All the way back into the city, he tries to decide how he feels about that. He doesn’t have an answer, nothing even close.

***

He doesn’t hear from Mycroft all day, not beyond a voicemail that he’d left late in the afternoon, a simple asking how his day was, a reminder that he’ll be back in the morning, Lestrade is alone at his flat, remembering what Anthea had said.

He doesn’t want to go. She invited him to his own local. He doesn’t want to talk to her. Even as he thinks it—he really doesn’t—the equal and opposite pull hits. He’s never seen anything like what he’s seen today. There is, too, the part where he knows that he’s not going to be able to avoid her forever, not if he’s planning to spend any significant time with Mycroft, and he’s already answered himself on that count.

He changes out of his work wardrobe and he walks, uncertain of where he’s actually going. Could be the pub, could be Regent’s. His feet decide for him, and when he walks in, Anthea is already there, in a corner booth that gives her a complete view of the pub. There’s already a glass waiting for him, amber-gold. She doesn’t say anything as he sits down, as he takes a sip of the smoky, peaty Scotch. It is, in some ways, like licking a burning peat bog, but somehow pleasantly so: it’s warming and robust and isn’t anything to drink quickly.

“Laphroiag,” she says, finally, naming the liquor, and he nods. He’s had it before.

He glances toward the bar, and Paul is giving him a hell of a look, from him to Anthea and back. And yes, this is the first time he’s been here with a woman. Anthea’s still wearing her leathers. Lestrade rolls his eyes at the bartender and turns his attention back to her.

But neither of them say anything for a long time. He cracks first.

“This afternoon’s mess cleaned up?”

“Tidily,” she says.

“I don’t appreciate you breaking in on my radio.”

“Mm,” she says. It’s an acknowledgment, not an apology. “You needed to see that.”

It does make a difference, if he thinks about it rationally. It’s an issue of probability, and Anthea clearly puts the odds in her—in their—favor. Santiago, whatever that meant. But he’s never been a maths man, and he doesn’t _want_ to think about this rationally. He says, “It doesn’t change anything.” She still is what she is.

She nods. “It doesn’t.” The whisky swirls in her glass, and she regards him over it. The gesture is so much like Mycroft. “But neither will Mycroft change, not in that respect.”

They are his rock and his hard place. “I know that,” he says, and he lets some of the anger fall into the words. “And I don’t _want_ him to change.” Not like that. Elbow on the table, he picks up his glass, lets it dangle from his fingertips, rests his forehead against the back of his hand. “I just want him.”

“I know.” Their glasses empty. Fresh ones appear unasked-for. “I’m not opposed to that. Quite the contrary.”

Maybe he snorts. He doesn’t mean to—it’s rude, and she’s been nothing but accommodating, insofar as she’s been able. But it begs the question—“Why?” There’s no logical reason that he can think of that _she_ should be in favour of their relationship. He knows that it makes everything more difficult for her. Every time that he and Mycroft decide to do something—go for dinner, decide to spend the night at Lestrade’s, have a walk—there’s got to be a series of ripples through her life.

She doesn’t answer directly. She says, “You know that expression of his, the crease here?” She touches one perfectly manicured, blunt-nailed fingertip between her eyes, just a shade to the left of center, and she scowls, hard. Lestrade knows that Mycroft has a wrinkle there, and he’s seen him plenty perturbed for a number of personal and professional reasons, but he’s never seen the deep furrowing that Anthea mimics now.

He says no. She slides around to his side of the bench, close, right next to his side.

She says, “The sound he makes when he’s completely miserable and no one else is supposed to know? This sound?” She makes a noise in the back of her throat, so quiet he can barely hear it, something between a swallowed cough and a sigh. It _sounds_ like a Mycroft thing, the pitch and tenor of it strangely perfect, and it’s more than a little unnerving that Anthea can make the imitation so spot-on.

But he has to shake his head again. “No,” he says. He hasn’t seen, hasn’t heard.

“Exactly,” she says. Her lips touch his cheek, and then she is walking out of the pub. Quickly enough that he could imagine that never happened. He’s still sitting there when he remembers that he never asked about Santiago.

***

The next day, there's a package waiting in front of his door, his address done in Betsy's most decorative hand. When he peels back the brown paper, there's a box, and inside the box, there's an envelope for him, a few items wrapped in hand-decorated paper (Reese’s Pieces candies, by the shape) and a smaller box. That one is addressed to Mycroft, everything swirled purple and green. Underneath it, an envelope, addressed to Anthea.

He takes a deep breath and pulls out his phone, leaves a voicemail for Mycroft: _Dinner tonight—will you come?_ Another breath. _Anthea, too._

Even as he closes his mobile, he’s opening the envelope, and a slip of paper falls onto the table. It’s done in Marisol’s neat print, and he can barely believe it is what it is; he’s been begging for this for more than a decade: the Aguilar y Cruz _paella_ recipe. Across the top: _I think you’ve earned this_.

He’s making a shopping list when his mobile rings. It’s Bob, and Marisol is already on the other line, too.

“Just the people I wanted to talk to,” he says. “Girls around? I want to thank them for the package.” He’s already e-mailed them, but saying it’s always better. And maybe he can wheedle out what’s in Mycroft’s package before Mycroft opens it.

“I wouldn’t thank them just yet,” Bob says. His sigh is long, slow. “Check the rest of your mail.”

He flips back through three days of post, and there isn’t anything noteworthy there, and he’s just saying that when he feels something stuck between the pages of the latest issue of _Spin_. It’s a sleek, ivory envelope, his name written in curly script across the front. The return address is Barcelona. He groans. He was supposed to be exempt.

Bob says, “I told you.”

Bob gives him the story—Betsy and Corrie, quite secretly, e-mailed Lola and asked her to invite him. And Mycroft. And there is Mycroft’s own name with his on the inner envelope—it’s not for Greg Lestrade and just any guest.

“I am not going—” Particularly if Betsy and Corrie strong-armed Lola into the invitation in the first place.

“Keep opening,” Marisol says. And so he does—will the nested envelopes and slips of tissue paper never bloody end? And tucked in with the RSVP is a little note: _I’ll show you mine if you show me yours._ Which was an old joke from Mallorca, being out with Bob and Mari, and Lola trying to get in his pants one more time. Now he can only assume she means their respective significant others. There is, thankfully, an addendum: _In all seriousness, please come if you can. We’d like to see you._ A postscript: _And I want to see the man that you settled down for. Bride asked. You can’t say no._

“Settled—?” It’s not even been three full months. He considers slamming his head in the refrigerator door. “What are they telling people?”

“According to the story you gave Mum and Da, absolutely nothing untrue.” Bob’s fingertips drum beside the phone.

“Or even exaggerated.” Marisol is clearly laughing at him. “RSVP was due a week ago, so you’d better send that back.”

“And give this Mycroft adequate notice. He sounds like a man who makes plans in advance,” Bob says, emphasizing the _sounds like_. The girls have put Bob and Marisol on a Mycroft-media blackout; Betsy says Mycroft has to be seen in person. They’ve sent the pictures of Mycroft to him, but that’s all.

“I am never telling any of you anything. Ever again.” He sinks into a chair. “Fuck.” He knows he won’t decline, since she’s gone to the trouble to invite him—even if it was coerced—and every event Lola’s ever coordinated has been a damn fine party. The last proper do he’d been to was Anderson’s wedding, and the event itself turned into a fair approximation of the state of the marriage. Would be nice to go to a good one.

“Sure you won’t. Just look at it this way: you can take the boyfriend for a proper holiday. Bet he could use one,” Bob says, and Lestrade is reminded that he spent two evenings last week—while Mycroft was working until well after midnight—playing Scrabble online with the girls while they worked on homework. That tonight will be the first he’s even seen Mycroft since that morning after.

Lestrade exhales. “That…that is always the truth.” If Mycroft can make it happen, anyway. Hard to be in Barcelona when he’s supposed to be in Tokyo. Or Chile. He’s not thinking about Chile right now.

“The hotel is very nice,” Marisol says. “Just the reward for the three days after.”

The time they’d all planned to stay with his parents. Marisol’s family will be at Lola’s wedding, so the girls will get to see one set of grandparents there, and then three days in Marseilles with the Lestrades. He’d forgotten about that, really, since the girls had visited, had forgotten the week entirely. There’d just been so many other things to deal with.

“Now you see why I said boarding school in Switzerland was a good idea.” Bob still thinks it’s funny, though. Clearly.

“Can I talk to them?” He’s not sure what he’ll say, but. Something halfway between _never, ever again_ and _thank you, I think_.

Marisol says they’ll call him when they’re allowed phone and internet privileges again. Which is at least a week out. “They are convinced they are dying.” Marisol sighs. “I am certain they will survive.”

“Betsy sounds exactly like you did every time Mum took away your record player,” Bob says. Which is to say: melodramatic. “Corrie is giving us the silent treatment.”

Marisol adds, “But they are very clever. They’re sneaking out secret messages in the post.” Or not-so-secret—the international rate stamps are fairly noticeable as they go missing from the sheet on the desk.

“They meant well.” Somehow, he knew he’d come around to defending them, and he’s not sure how that’s exactly fair, but he’s not at all surprised.

“And I will send _that_ right back to you when Mum’s got your new boyfriend cornered.”

Lestrade feels his heart clutch in his chest. “It’s too early for that.” Isn’t it?

Marisol just laughs.

***

It’s warm enough that he opens the windows, spins up some Gogol Bordello. It seems to be the correct choice for the mélange of spices.

He might be half-shouting “Immigraniada,” sautéing chicken, when Mycroft steps in from the open front door. Anthea isn’t at his elbow.

“She’ll be here in a few minutes,” Mycroft says. He hangs his jacket over the back of the armchair. He steps into the kitchen. “Gregory.”

Lestrade turns down the heat on the chicken, washes his hands quickly, and Mycroft pulls him in close, presses his face in the crook of Lestrade’s neck, and he holds him close for a while, his hands knotted at the base of Lestrade’s spine. Lestrade lifts his arms, wraps them around Mycroft’s shoulders, pushes his fingers into Mycroft’s hair. Mycroft kisses up the side of his neck, up to his jaw, to his lips.

“I’ve missed you,” Mycroft says. He presses his mouth to the spot where he’d taken that punch in the breaker’s yard. There’s no bruise, but it’s still a little tender—of course Mycroft knows. He knows, but he doesn’t say anything else about it. Just rubs their cheeks together, gently, and Lestrade kisses him, relearns the shape of his teeth, the slide of his tongue.

“I missed you, too.” He steps forward, and Mycroft steps back, until Mycroft’s back hits the wall. Mycroft seems surprised by that, but he returns Lestrade’s hard kisses, one hand splayed across Lestrade’s back, the other low on his waist.

From the doorway, one soft click sounds, a shoe-sole on the threshold. Lestrade pulls back, tries to gather himself, but Mycroft tugs him back in, just once more. They part slowly, and there is Anthea, standing at the edge of the living room, wearing a black pantsuit. She’s looking closely at his stereo, at his music collection. Her mouth might move along with the words, or she’s sighing because he and Mycroft are still only inches apart.

He takes a deep breath, invites them to sit as he returns to the dinner preparation. “I’m getting your mail now,” Lestrade says, nodding toward the items at their plates, and both Mycroft and Anthea are staring a bit, a little wide-eyed. He pours wine as the rice toasts in the fragrant oil. It’s a Rías Baixas _Albariño_ , one that will do well enough with the _paella_ , and though it means his little kitchen is crowded, he puts the glasses on the table.

At Mycroft’s glance, he shrugs. “All I can say is that I’m reasonably sure that there’s nothing alive in yours, and ninety-nine percent sure on yours.” He glances at Anthea, and she smiles faintly. “They’re not going to open themselves.”

The first crumple of paper comes from Mycroft, who undoes the tape slowly, without ripping anything. A small knife appears in Anthea’s hand and the top of the envelope splits silently.

He doesn’t see her put it away, either. But she slides the card out, everything black and blue and silver, and inside is a bookmark and a thin, hand-braided bracelet, black with a yellow stripe through its middle, like lightning. She puts the card and bookmark inside their envelope, and ties the bracelet around her ankle.

Inside Mycroft’s box, another bookmark, a pair of purple and green argyle socks, another mix-CD. There’s also a scroll of parchment-style paper, tied with a green ribbon. Lestrade knows what this is—Mycroft’s welcome to his house, which is clearly Slytherin. Harry Potter, he was reminded, was almost a Slytherin, and Mycroft is clearly ambitious, as much as he works. The girls had walked him through this on the phone a full week ago, before their punishment.

Mycroft reads, and he grins. “I don’t dare deny any of this,” he says.

“Certainly not,” Anthea says. Mycroft nearly looks indignant at that, though, and Lestrade can’t help the bit of grin.

“How did you escape a sorting?” He is, actually, surprised. Particularly as interested as Corrie’s been. He quarters two lobster tails, cleans mussels, and gives the rice one last gentle stir.

“I’ve been sorted.” Anthea sips her wine. She looks pleased, and she doesn’t elaborate. But he knows the house, now, by the bracelet colours. He feels suddenly relieved, which is ridiculous, but the feeling laps around him nonetheless. He turns, opens the refrigerator. Things to be done.

He arranges the chunks of lobster, the mussels, and pieces of chicken in the rice, slides the _paella_ into the oven to finish before pouring himself a glass of wine and leaning against the counter. What he’d like to do is sit on Mycroft’s lap. The chair would hold them. He knows that. He focuses on that instead of on the wedding invitation he’s not certain he should mention yet. Mycroft’s long legs instead of saying anything about Santiago.

Mycroft asks how his week has been.

“You already know,” Lestrade says. There’s no heat in it. It just is. Particularly since most of what he does ends up in the papers, anyway.

But Mycroft’s eyebrows quirk, the corners of his mouth just tilting down. “Gregory.” He might as well say, “Oh, come now,” with that moue on.

It makes Lestrade want to roll his eyes and kiss him stupid at the same time. Which is new. “What?” He shrugs. There’s the Prague case, which is bizarre, but slow—nothing he really wants to talk about. Nothing either of them really want to hear about, either. He rolls the _Albariño_ across his tongue, swallows, takes another mouthful. It’s very nice, and he knows Mari’s recipe is going to turn out brilliantly because she doesn’t cook often, but when she does, it’s worth the wait. He folds his arms over his chest, dangles his wine glass under one elbow. He’s _got_ wineglasses now, something he’d said he wasn’t going to bother with before. Wineglasses didn’t matter before. Not that they matter now—the first time Anthea joined them for dinner, Mycroft had chosen mugs from the cupboard, said he liked how they kept the chill on the white rather nicely.

He lifts his chin. “Your brother’s a shit storyteller,” he says. If there’s nothing for him to figure out, he can only be bothered with the conclusion. What happened, in the end? Didn’t matter how they got there.

Mycroft’s face tenses. “I fear even to ask.”

“You should,” he says, teasing. Though it wasn’t so bad—rather nice, inasmuch as a full evening of Sherlock at once can be. He did find out about Mycroft’s failures as an oboist, his mediocrity at the piano, his success with languages. _All of those things they say come as a native speaker, or only after long immersion, all the culture, all the flavour of life in another tongue—he understands it. Effortlessly. Which is ridiculous because he’s barely lived his own life, let alone one in Basque._ That came after Sherlock had drunk several halves of several of John’s pints, refusing his own glass at least three separate times. “I heard you spent some time in South America.” And Lestrade’s half-ready to say _tell me about Santiago_ when he catches the minute shift of Mycroft’s eyes, toward Anthea, and she’s got her legs pulled in under herself, all of a sudden, her gaze fixed on the linoleum five feet in front of her and nowhere else.

“Yes,” Mycroft says. “On a number of occasions.” He looks at Lestrade. “Thinking of a trip to Brazil? Apparently there’s a grand parade.” Though his voice is light, there’s something cautionary in his eyes.

He’ll go with that. Mycroft won’t get out of explaining, but he knows that look that’s hanging about Anthea. Can’t spend half a lifetime investigating violent crimes without seeing it from time to time. “Yeah. Rio.” He turns and peeks into the oven, turns the pan a bit. “Heard Carnaval’s all right. If you go in for tanned, sleek, fit chaps all oiled up and the like. All that sunshine and _cachaça_ and samba—” He bites his lip for effect, then he stands up straight, shrugs. “But I’d really prefer to go on a hike in the Amazon. Hundred and ten percent humidity. Leeches. Venomous everything. Yes. That’d be just the thing.” The girls think camping is brilliant. He’s slept in a few fields in his day. He has no idea what’s charming about it.

Mycroft sighs dramatically. “And here I’d planned our first holiday together to Loch Lomond to study the biting midge in their peak season.”

“Only if we’re naked. Nude hiking is all the rage with the Germans,” Lestrade says. “But, yes, let’s.” He clasps his hands together in front of his chest, and Anthea lifts a hand to her mouth to cover the grin as Mycroft, even in the middle of the joke, recoils in horror. Lestrade opens the oven door, slides the _paella_ pan onto the waiting bit of countertop. It’s the sort of thing that’s meant to be looked at, to be its own centerpiece, but his kitchen table simply isn’t large enough.

And then, at least, they’re distracted properly with food, and it is worth every bit of trouble it is to make (and the wee jar of saffron threads he’d picked up). Particularly because both Anthea and Mycroft take seconds—something Mycroft doesn’t really do—and they both say it is every bit as fantastic as that place in Cadiz.

This seems a fair enough time to bring it up. “Speaking of Spain,” he says. He gets up, gets the invitation from the middle of the stack of mail. He takes the actual invitation out—the personal note he’s already thrown away—and hands it to Mycroft. “Could I get away with stealing you for a few days?” He clears his throat. “Say, five?”

Mycroft glances up from the invitation. “Five?” Which is to say: the wedding is on a Saturday night. That’s a weekend trip. He seems surprised.

“Detour through Marseilles on the way home?” His mouth is very dry. “I know it’s sort of a big chunk of time.” Especially since he’s just had so much of Mycroft’s time when the girls were visiting. It seems, all of a sudden, too selfish a thing to ask. Too much. Mycroft knows why they’d be stopping in France. Too much, maybe, too soon.

Mycroft opens his mouth to respond, but Anthea cuts him off before he can say anything. “We could make it work,” she says. “Sir.”

Mycroft looks shocked to be preempted, but he smiles, glances up. “Yes,” he says. “We will.”

The three of them finish the bottle of wine, the subject wandering between Anthea and Mycroft’s apparently long-standing discussion (argument?) regarding the Spanish painting and the relative artistic merits of Goya (her) and Velázquez (him), the upcoming end of the football season (he and Mycroft, mostly), and the advantages of sport versus touring bikes (he and Anthea). Anthea excuses herself to the lav and the two of them are alone for a minute.

Mycroft reaches and squeezes his hand where it rests on the table. “Thank you,” he says. He lifts Lestrade’s hand, kisses his open palm. “Your generosity of spirit means a great deal.”

He’s not quite sure what that even means. Lestrade turns his hand until he can touch the pad of his thumb to Mycroft’s lips, drags it down to rest briefly in the cleft in his chin. “Yeah, well,” he says. “Any way I could be not-generous enough to keep you tonight, too?”

Mycroft smiles a little, ducks down to nip at his finger. The feeling goes all the way up his arm, heated. “That could be arranged.” Mycroft does keep a suit here now, too. And though the odds of Mycroft having to leave before the sun even rises are high, Lestrade will take it.

Anthea comes back as they’re kissing. She glances in, passes by the kitchen, picks up her bag where she put it beside the sofa. “I’ll have the car here at a quarter to seven, sir.” Maybe there’s a hint of a grin playing at the corners of her mouth.

“Thank you.” Mycroft straightens a little from where his mouth is bent close to Lestrade’s neck.

“Good night. Thank you, Detective Inspector, for dinner.” The door closes silently behind her.

It’s too late now, but— “She could use my name.” Any of them, really.

Mycroft mouths at his earlobe. “She does.”

Lestrade pulls back, looks at him. “When?”

Mycroft tilts his head, gives him that raised eyebrow.

“You talk about me.” Lestrade shoves at his shoulder. “You great gossiping girl’s blouses.” He gets up, goes to the sink. “I thought you were solving the world’s problems, and here you’re kissing and telling.” The warmth suffuses behind his ribs.

Laughing, Mycroft tucks up against his back. “Telling is entirely unnecessary.” Which Lestrade knows is true. A kiss on the side of his neck. “And I would never stoop to gossip.” Mycroft’s arms curl around his waist, his nose against the back of Lestrade’s ear. “I may, occasionally, concede that you are a _marginally_ more interesting subject than traffic patterns.” One hand slides up over his heart. The other ends up on the top of his thigh. “Only just, though.”

“Well. As long as I’m good for something.” He’s trying to keep a straight face while he says it, can’t. But still the feeling of Mycroft changes against him—his posture. Mycroft holds him a little tighter, presses his cheek to Lestrade’s neck.

“You,” Mycroft says, “are good for everything.”

He remembers what Anthea said. He reaches, rests one hand on the back of Mycroft’s neck, tips his head until he can kiss Mycroft on the lips. “Except your concentration?” He grins against Mycroft’s mouth.

“Sometimes.” Mycroft’s fingertips flex on his thigh, then Mycroft’s face turns thoughtful. “More often, I am motivated to be particularly efficient.” And Mycroft reaches past him for the tap, turns it on. He insists on doing the washing up. “It is the least I can do,” he says, even as he’s stepping forward, as he’s turning up his sleeves. And so Mycroft washes and Lestrade dries, the stereo now on to that cellist that Mycroft likes so, playing Bach’s cello suites.

“The _sarabande_ was banned as being too sensual and risqué to perform in public.” Mycroft rinses his hands, dries them, and they put away the last of the dishes.

Lestrade listens, and the _courante_ , as Mycroft names it, shifts into the _sarabande_. He’s heard the whole album before, but this track he’s heard often. In the background, while they’ve been on the phone together. The thought coalesces, and he grins, steps into Mycroft’s space, backs him up against the wall again.

“Then the soundtrack’s appropriate,” he says. He kisses him, presses them together, and Mycroft’s hands shove under the hem of his shirt, into his hair. Lestrade kisses his neck, and Mycroft tips his head back against the wall. Lestrade slides his hands up Mycroft’s body, curls his fingertips into the knot of his tie. The fine weave of the silk loosens under his touch, and though what he’d usually do is throw it, he can’t bring himself to throw Mycroft’s clothes. He drapes it around his own neck, undoes the buttons of Mycroft’s waistcoat, the ones on his shirt.

“Shall we?” Mycroft gestures toward the hallway, even as he seems to lean harder into the wall.

Lestrade pushes open the collar of Mycroft’s shirt, sucks softly at the base of his throat. “Hn-nn.” He grins up at Mycroft. “Soundtrack calls for risqué.” His hand slips around Mycroft’s waist, to the base of his spine, his fingertips under the waistband of his trousers, and he kisses down the center of Mycroft’s chest as he bends, kneels on the floor in front of him. Mycroft’s belt parts easily enough, the leather sleek and shiny, and Lestrade pauses there for a moment to rub his cheek against Mycroft’s stomach, the dusting of red hair beneath his navel.

He makes it a point to look up as he’s undoing Mycroft’s fly, as he’s edging open his trousers, tugging his prick free of his pants. Mycroft’s got one hand on his shoulder, the other braced against the wall, and he swallows as Lestrade leans in, presses his face to his groin, sighs softly before he licks in long stripes.

“Gregory,” Mycroft says as he pushes down over his prick, leans in close and closer, takes him deep, just for a moment, before pulling away. Mycroft’s hips rock forward, and Mycroft’s hand curls into a fist against the wall. Lestrade grins up at him, does it again. This time, Mycroft thrusts a little, and his teeth are set against his bottom lip, and he does it again before he forces himself back to stillness.

“That’s it,” Lestrade says. “Take what you want.” He stays back deliberately, licking just at the head of Mycroft’s prick. When he glances at him, Mycroft’s watching him carefully, his hand starting to tighten on Lestrade’s shoulder. Lestrade slides his hand from Mycroft’s hip to his arse, tugs him forward a little. “Come on. Fuck my mouth.” He’s never said that while there’s been cello music in the background, but it feels right, now, as the music goes low and throaty, like he can feel the vibrations even here, or maybe that’s Mycroft’s reaction to his words. Either way, Mycroft’s hand slips up from his shoulder, to the back of his neck, and he rolls his hips cautiously.

Lestrade gets both hands on Mycroft’s arse, steadies himself as Mycroft rocks into his mouth, and when he moans around the thick weight of his prick, Mycroft echoes him, thrusts harder, and _there_ Lestrade can feel him give in to sensation, to the urge to clutch and pant. He finds himself giving in, too, shoving one hand into his jeans to palm his own prick roughly, and Mycroft’s hand lands on his bicep.

“Wait,” he says. “Wait, please. I want to—” What it is that he wants to do, he doesn’t say, because his voice breaks into another breathy moan, and Lestrade stills his hand, reaches instead to drag his fingertips down Mycroft’s chest, to scratch softly. Mycroft’s hips jerk, and he stiffens, spills over Lestrade’s tongue.

Lestrade swallows, and Mycroft rakes his fingers through Lestrade’s hair before he slides down the wall to sit, to haul Lestrade into his lap, to kiss him messily. Mycroft’s hands catch on his fly, push the cloth away, and he strokes Lestrade’s prick as he bites at his jaw.

“Gregory.”

Mycroft’s voice is a low vibration against his throat, his tongue a wet lapping at his Adam’s apple. Lestrade pushes Mycroft’s shirt over his shoulders, down his arms as far as he can without binding his reach too much. The pale, freckled skin is faintly salty, and Lestrade sucks a purple mark onto his collarbone as Mycroft’s hands cup and slide and rub.

“God, Mycroft.” He drags his teeth over Mycroft’s throat, licks, and then Mycroft is pulling him to kneel up again, is shifting further down the wall, and he bends his head to take Lestrade’s prick in his mouth.

The angle’s still a little awkward, but it’s not going to take much, not the way that Mycroft’s moaning as he sucks, the way his fingertips dig into the soft skin above his hips to pull him a little bit closer.

When he comes, Mycroft pulls him back down, and they cling to each other, their mouths together. Lestrade doesn’t quite know how long they stay like that, knows only that, eventually, it registers that the stereo’s gone quiet, that his left foot is pins and needles, and Mycroft’s tie is still around his neck, Mycroft’s shirt and waistcoat hanging open. He just kisses him again, until Mycroft drags a finger over his lips. Finally, Mycroft blinks.

“We’re on your kitchen floor.” Mycroft’s chest lifts, and Lestrade glances around from his seat in Mycroft’s lap: the drawer pulls at eye level, the countertop above, the rather-better-than-he-wants view of the dust beneath the refrigerator.

Lestrade kisses the tip of his chin. “I can see why you’re the clever one.”

Mycroft glares at him, but it’s ruined by the slightly sticky slide of his fingertips beneath Lestrade’s shirt.

He shifts, and his left knee makes a distinct popping noise as he unfolds himself, stands. He pulls Mycroft up, and they right their trousers.

“I’ve rumpled you,” he says, petting Mycroft’s bare chest with one hand and dusting him off a little with the other.

“I can’t say I minded.” Mycroft looks around again, at the wall, and he’s grinning, looking pleased, before he takes Lestrade’s hand.

Later, in bed, Mycroft has one ankle curled around Lestrade’s while he does something on his phone—preparing for tomorrow, he says. Lestrade flips through _Spin_ , his back against Mycroft’s side. Mycroft’s fingertips slide down his arm.

“Five days,” he says. “Do I have the girls to thank for this, in some fashion?”

Lestrade has to laugh, and he nods. “They’re grounded for it, too.” He puts the magazine on the bedside table, rolls over to face him. “I know it’s not much notice,” Lestrade says. “I understand if—”

Mycroft reaches, puts his fingertip against his mouth. “It’s two months. That’s decades.”

“And it’s my family.” He breathes deep, kisses Mycroft’s fingers. “Are you certain you want to do this? They’re a lot to deal with all at once.” It seems soon. The event is two months away, but still—it’ll be less than half a year they’ve been together then. Will didn’t meet his parents until they’d been together nearly a year. But Mycroft has never been anything like Will.

“I am entirely certain,” Mycroft says. He smoothes one thumb along Lestrade’s cheek. “I will return that favour,” he says. “When I can.”

He nods. “No rush,” he says. Mycroft seldom mentions his mother, and he’s never mentioned his father. Lestrade can’t say he isn’t curious about the woman who birthed Mycroft and Sherlock, but he’d be lying, too, if he said the thought wasn’t also terrifying. His own family will be too forward, will say things to deliberately embarrass him in front of Mycroft, but they’ll also be warm, easy. Betsy and Corrie have ensured that. He cannot imagine the same behavior from Mycoft’s mother, not when the man still sometimes seems startled by casual touches, by teasing. He curls in against Mycroft’s side. “I spend lots of time with your brother.” It evens out, somehow.

Mycroft makes a faintly anguished sound, though he’s sort of smiling, too. “There’s nothing I can do about that, is there?”

Lestrade pets the silk lapels of his pyjamas. “There is, but you won’t.” He’s starting to wonder what Mycroft can’t do. Or can’t have done. Most days, he’s certain it doesn’t bear thinking about.

Mycroft makes an agreeable hum— _true_ —and pulls Lestrade’s leg across his own, slides his hand over Lestrade’s bare back.

“What did happen,” Lestrade says, “in Santiago?”

Mycroft tips up his chin, kisses him softly. “It’s a long story.”

Lestrade nods. “That’s all right.” His hand slips under Mycroft’s shirt, strokes the soft skin of his stomach. “I’ve got time.” He slides his fingers down, then, over his hips, and Mycroft’s prick twitches, is a blunt line beneath the fabric. Skating his fingertips closer, Lestrade rubs his cheek against Mycroft’s shoulder, leaves a gentle bite.

Mycroft rolls to face him, tangles their legs together. “I’ll never be able to tell it if you keep doing things like that.” His hand knots in Lestrade’s hair, gently, as he lifts his head to suck on Lestrade’s earlobe, to nibble at the silver stud.

Lestrade hooks one leg over Mycroft’s hip, arches against him. Lestrade says, “I can wait,” he says. “You’ll tell me. When she wants me to know, too.” It’s not only Mycroft’s story. Lestrade knows that much from earlier. “I can wait,” he repeats. When he says it, it becomes true. It’s all right: the weight lifts.

Mycroft’s arms tighten around him for a moment, his lips moving soundlessly against his ear, warm and soft, until the gentle brush turns into a trail of kisses to his mouth.

**Author's Note:**

> Soundtrack:
> 
> [Gogol Bordello on NPR's Tiny Desk Concert](http://www.npr.org/2010/12/03/128111544/gogol-bordello-tiny-desk-concert)
> 
> [Zuill Bailey (the cellist) on NPR's Tiny Desk Concert](http://www.npr.org/2010/06/04/127374025/zuill-bailey-tiny-desk-concert)
> 
> Both of these are utterly worth watching.


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